


The Doctor Is In

by ladderax (allnuthatchforest)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, M/M, Medical Kink, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/pseuds/ladderax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They break into Eames's dad's office because they're bored, but they can't figure out what to do when they get there.</p><p>Then Arthur thinks of something for them to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor Is In

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Arthur rubs his arms and pulls his forest-green plaid coat tighter around his slim body. Eames glances back nervously toward the parking lot, but there’s no activity except the sheets of rain guillotining the asphalt.

“You’ll see,” Eames turns to him as he jiggles yet another key in the lock; no success. Actually, Eames doesn’t have a real reason to be at his dad’s office on a Sunday other than boredom and the siren call of trespassing.

Arthur’s hair is plastered around his face like one of those tentacle-creatures from the Alien movies. His face is flushed, dripping with thick raindrops that trail down his neck and dangle off his chin, and it makes his skin look smooth and dewy.

Eames isn’t sure why he’s paying attention to Arthur’s skin. They’d only made out once, at a kegger they’d attended mainly to prove they weren’t just chess club nerds, and they’d ended up drunk and burrowing (Arthur, surprisingly, started it) under the mound of coats in the bedroom. Under the sweltering weight of puffy down jackets and wool trenches their lips had met, and kept meeting, but it was just a thing, just what happens at parties, just a natural extension of the giddiness and silliness and proximity of that moment. Nothing that Eames needs a repeat performance of, especially not right now, in the rain, with Arthur’s smooth lips parted and his teeth chattering and his eyelashes clumped and darkened by the water.

Eames kind of wants to give Arthur the plastic 7-11 bag that he’s holding over his own head, but that grimace of Arthur’s has always drawn out Eames’s more contrary tendencies, and he just ruffles the bag and smiles smugly.

“I know you’re all proud that your dad’s a doctor and you’re just desperate to impress me by showing his office,” Arthur says.

“Why would I care what you think?” Eames retorts. “I just wanted someone to put the blame on in case I got caught. I could just tell them you blackmailed me and threatened to frame me for cheating unless I gave you—“

“What, strep throat tests?” Arthur chuckles.

Finally one of the keys on the heavy keychain works, and the door opens.

“I _have_ seen doctors’ offices before, Eames.” Arthur’s soles squeak wetly in the corridor.

Eames flicks a light on. “I bet you’ve never seen a gynecologist’s office before, though.”

“No.” Arthur’s looking at the posters on the walls, the lists of symptoms and reminders for yearly exams. “I’m not exactly sure why I’d need to see one, though. In case you hadn’t noticed, I am a guy.”

Eames looks at Arthur, at the curve of his arse in his well-fitted trousers and the way his chest arches as he yanks the damp raincoat off one arm, then the other. “I’m well aware of what you are, Arthur. I just thought we could take a break and go for a walk and do something we weren’t supposed to do.”

“So what do you wanna do now that we’re here?”

Eames is ambling idly around the waiting room. He throws his coat onto a chair and picks up a National Geographic. “Hmmm, Big Bad Bizarre Dinosaurs. I don’t know. We could read about dinosaurs! We could watch TV in the waiting room, or look at confidential files, or see if there are free samples of anything that could get us fucked up—“

One side of Arthur’s mouth quirks up wickedly, and he looks a bit like Norman Bates. “Or we could play doctor.”

Eames is well aware that his mouth is hanging open like a mailbox. He tries to laugh it off. “Um. Oh yeah, sure. I could put on my dad’s lab coat and check your blood pressure and stick things in your ears, yeah, that’ll be fun…”

“Fine.” Arthur, coat folded over his arm, walks down the hallway. “I’m going to go lie down in the examination room until you decide you’re done here and you’re ready to go back home and start on the chem assignment.” Eames just grunts in answer and rolls his eyes.

He flicks on the TV and Dr. Phil is railing at a man who blew his wife’s life savings to make an unauthorized sequel to _Super Size Me._ Eames goes behind the receptionist’s desk, tilts up a file cabinet, feels for the hole on its base so he can push up the rod inside to undo the locking mechanism.

Success.

This is the cabinet marked FINANCES. Eames flips through the invoices and lists of expenditures, but there doesn’t seem to be anything scandalous.

“You have one minute to show me something interesting or I’m leaving.” Eames turns around and there is Arthur wearing nothing but his argyle socks and a paper dressing gown. Light comes in through the edges. Arthur’s arms are crossed and he’s leering at Eames.

Eames’s mouth has suddenly gone dry. Framed by the socks and the gown, it’s apparent that Arthur’s got a very nice set of legs, toned from running cross-country, covered with soft dark hair Eames suddenly really wants to get his hands on. “Um—um—OK?” When Arthur turns around Eames gets an even bigger shock. Arthur’s arse is completely bare, and it looks like two high, firm, perfect handfuls, just as Eames remembers from that night under all the coats when they laughed and sweated and, if anyone came into the room, played dead like opossums.

“Yeah,” Eames laughs nervously. “Sure. Let’s play doctor.”

Eames follows Arthur into the exam room. It’s cold in there, and Arthur rubs his goosebump-covered arms and hoists himself onto the table. Eames thinks for a moment, then sees his dad’s lab coat hung on the back of the door. He puts it on. It’s got DR. EAMES embroidered on the breast pocket, which amuses him a good bit because it’s like it’s really his coat and it makes him feel like he ought to be wearing the other accoutrements of a Dr. Eames, like the stethoscope on the small table.

He finds a box of sterile wipes in the closet and swabs the chest piece and the part it’s attached to, whatever that’s called. Then he pulls on a pair of latex gloves, snapping them at the wrists and trying to give Arthur his best terrifying-sadistic-I’m-going-to-chain-you-to-this-table-and-cut-you-with-a-chainsaw look. It doesn’t quite work. Arthur just shakes his limbs loose and reclines on the table.

“Can you slide down for me a little?” Eames asks, hovering over him. “Put your feet in the stirrups.”

Arthur’s eyes are half-closed by gravity and the recumbent position makes his face look soft and dreamy. “So you want me to spread my legs for you.”

Eames tsks. “That’s not the way I’d describe it. This is just an examination, nothing more. So what brings you here today? Just a routine physical?” He pokes his fingertips under Arthur’s jaw the way his doctors had always done to check for swollen lymph nodes.

Arthur nods. “Pretty much. My stomach kind of hurts.”

“What kind of pain?” Eames presses the stethoscope to Arthur’s chest and listens to the rapid beating of his heart. The way the stethoscope magnifies it, it’s like Arthur’s heart is a big, dangerous thing, like a pair of heavy-booted feet, something with the weight and power to stomp a person down. He pulls the chest piece away.

“I don’t know.” Arthur shakes his head. “It just hurts.”

Eames raises the paper gown to reveal Arthur’s stomach. It’s lovely, flat but with a bit of definition and adorned with a line of dark hair that widens just above his smooth, cut cock. He applies light pressure where the edge of Arthur’s ribcage meets his unarmored belly. And he has to stifle a laugh at the solemnity of this, almost has to laugh at how Arthur isn’t laughing, how he’s just lying back and staring up at the ceiling with his sharp mouth pressed together pensively.

“Tell me if anything hurts.” He goes in a circle, almost massaging, letting his fingertips sink in and feel the slightly varying terrain of each area. He kneads the place right above Arthur’s pubic bone, then rests his entire hand there. His fingertips keep moving, searching, but his palm just lies flat, and he looks at it, sees how much of Arthur’s stomach his hand is covering, and he resists an urge to rub Arthur’s belly with both hands. He both likes and is scared of the way Arthur is pressing into his touch, is arching off the table and breathing in a slow-mo version of the way he sounds after a grueling track meet.

“That feels really good,” Arthur sighs when Eames draws his hands away. “Can you keep doing that?”

Eames looks down at him fondly, paternally, _silly boy_. “Unfortunately, I’m not really in the business of making people feel good, more just okay. This is the kind of thing you might want to ask your boyfriend for help with.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Arthur intones.

Eames doesn’t reply; he just takes Arthur’s scrotum in one hand and rolls it around, supposedly feeling for lumps or thicknesses with his thumb but really just enjoying the fact he’s got Arthur’s balls in his hand and they’re fun to play with. Arthur’s knees are up in the air, smooth inner thighs exposed; the paper gown is rucked up around his collarbone, and his hands are gripping the edges of the table. Eames is kind of amazed that Arthur, who’s always biting something or tapping his fingers or rocking on the back legs of his chair, is so committed to lying still right now.

“Ready for the rectal exam?” Arthur snickers a bit and Eames is comforted. Eames coats his fingers with a few pumps from the bottle that says LUBRICANT, positions himself between Arthur’s thighs, and touches his index finger to Arthur’s tight opening. He can tell it’s cold by the way Arthur flinches.

“Wait a second,” Arthur says

Eames looks at him worriedly. “You don’t want this?”

“No, it’s just—no one’s ever touched me there before, and I just want to make sure I’m clean and everything.”

“It’s OK, I really don’t care—“ Eames protests, but Arthur swings himself upright and Eames watches his arse as he walks off.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he hears Arthur yell from down the hall.

“The door on the left at the end of the hallway,” Eames shouts back. Thinking about what he’s (hopefully) about to do to Arthur, really thinking about it, is ratcheting his already half-hard cock up to fully erect status. It swells against the fly of his pants really wanting to get someplace a little snugger, preferably Arthur’s hand or mouth or arse. He cups his hand over it, just trying futilely to scratch the itch but knowing it’s only going to make it worse.

After what feels like an agonizingly long time, Arthur pads back into the room. Eames is terrified that Arthur’s going to say that he doesn’t want to do this anymore, but he climbs back up onto the table and spreads himself out. For Eames. And Eames’s heart is pounding now like he’s listening to it through a stethoscope.

“OK, you really ready this time?” Eames asks, re-coating his fingers with lube.

“Mhmmm,” says Arthur.

Eames begins to push the tip of his finger into Arthur’s hole. Arthur’s breathing is speeding up and he’s clenching up.

“Breathe,” Eames tells him. “Try and relax.” He rubs the hole a couple of times and then tries pushing in again. This time Arthur’s able to take him in. He pushes in back and forth and every time it’s a little easier, every time Arthur’s hot, snug hole relaxes a bit around his finger. But it’s still a tight fit, still massages Eames’s finger with every stroke. Arthur grips the table, knuckles white. He moans.

“Everything feels good in here so far,” Eames says, trying to sound matter-of-fact even though he’s sure his voice sounds cracked and husky. “Let me just feel your prostate now.”

Eames had had an older boyfriend who’d taught him all about the prostate, how it could be pleasured by crooking a finger in the direction of the cock and scrotum. Eames crooks his finger now, still continuing his circular stroking motions.

Arthur gasps. “Oh God, Eames.”

And Eames is too far gone himself to correct him.

Arthur jerks his hips, trying to angle himself so Eames’s finger hits him just right. Eames drinks in the sight incredulously. Arthur, having abandoned all pretense of a medical examination, fucking himself on Eames’s finger. Arthur’s thighs clenching and his belly tightening, the hollow of his throat deepening as he takes a deep breath that triggers aftershocks throughout his body. And all that skin. All that skin laid bare to him that Eames has yet to touch with his naked hands. Eames can’t stand it anymore. With his teeth, he peels the glove off the hand that isn’t still fucking Arthur, and he wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock. Arthur’s panting is getting more insistent. He drives his hips towards Eames’s hand and Eames knows from the twitching of Arthur’s cock that he’s almost there. A few more pumps are all it takes, and Arthur’s coming all over both of them.

Come is streaked across Arthur’s belly, pooled in Arthur’s navel and in the shallows of his hipbones. Eames wipes him off with a grin and a paper towel, then he steps back to look at Arthur, red-lipped and sweaty and reclining on one elbow. His waist, accentuated by his position, is just begging for the stroke of a hand. Eames obliges it.

“What do you think? Is it your turn to be the doctor?” It’s an awkward moment, Eames sitting on the edge of the table kneading Arthur’s waist with his thumb, wondering if he should kiss Arthur.

“No,” Arthur says. “Why don’t we play a new game? I think you’ll like it. It’s called ‘your cock in my mouth’.”

Eames smiles. “I think you’re right.”

“How should we—“ Arthur’s trying to figure out how to position them. “Why don’t you sit on the edge of the table, and I’ll sit in that chair.” He points to a swivel chair in the corner.

Eames is all too happy to oblige.

After they’ve gotten themselves situated, Arthur takes a long time teasing him, toying with his zipper and looking up at him with big wanton eyes. Arthur runs his hands up and down his thighs and plays with the edges of his white coat until finally Eames, so hard it hurts, gracelessly tugs his zipper open and hopes Arthur will take pity. It works, sort of. Arthur at first just presses his mouth to Eames’s cotton-covered length, rubs his lips over it.

“Mmm, I’ve always wanted to blow a doctor,” Arthur says slyly.

The words go straight to Eames’s cock, and he wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s head. “Thing is, I don’t see much blowing happening here.”

With that Arthur’s hand dips below the waistband of Eames’s briefs and pulls Eames’s cock out. Arthur fits his mouth over the head; he wraps his hand around the shaft and pumps as he licks the tip. The friction of dry palms over his sensitive foreskin is almost too much, almost a little painful, but the wave of brilliant heat that spreads further into his body with every jerk of Arthur’s hand and every lap of Arthur’s tongue tips the scales in favor of pleasure, a pleasure so strong and irreversible that it makes Eames moan like a weak, helpless thing.

A split second before Eames comes, Arthur releases his cock, so that he shoots his load all over Arthur’s face. When Eames opens his eyes, Arthur is grinning at him with a face splatter-painted with jizz.

“I had no idea how filthy you were,” Eames says fondly as Arthur dips a finger into the cum and feeds it into Eames’s mouth. Then he dabs a bit of it onto the collar of the lab coat.

“Hey, this is my dad’s!” Eames protests. He disengages from Arthur long enough to grab some paper towels.

Eames wipes his cum off of Arthur’s face, then wads the paper towels up and throws them at the garbage can.

“I think that counts as biomedical waste,” Arthur says, pulling his shirt on. “Shouldn’t it go in a special bag?”

Eames grabs him from behind by the hips. “Did you just refer to my jizz as waste?”

Arthur cranes his neck backwards and turns his head to the side. He might, might just be trying to provoke Eames into kissing him. And Eames is too spent for games right now, so he leans in and kisses as much of Arthur’s mouth as he can at that angle. He swears he feels Arthur purr into his mouth.

Eames moves his hands around to rest on Arthur’s stomach.

“So, does your stomach still hurt?” Eames inquires, trying for nonchalance.

“It didn’t really hurt,” Arthur says. “It was just part of the game.”

“Mmm, I know.” Eames can’t help pressing an almost-kiss to Arthur’s neck. “But I can still rub it anyway, right?” His hand creeps up beneath Arthur’s shirt.

“My doctor told me that was a job for my boyfriend,” Arthur says, pulling his shirt down and prying Eames’s hand off his skin. “And you’re not my boyfriend.”

Eames feels himself redden. “Well, um--”

 _I’ve really done it now,_ he thinks. _I’m so stupid. I’ve basically just given him a stuffed animal and asked him to go to prom with me._

But Arthur turns around and slides his arms around Eames’s waist. “Well, we’re going to have to keep it secret, since you’re my doctor and all. But yes. If you’d like for us to annoy each other on a slightly more regular basis, then I’d be willing to give it a try.”

Eames forgets what to do with himself for a moment, then remembers that the done thing in these situations is to kiss the person who’s just agreed to fuck you regularly and to maybe possibly forgive you if you do something in the mild-to-moderately-stupid range. So he kisses Arthur.

“So I don’t think I’ve ever asked you, but what does your dad do for a living?” Eames asks after they’ve kissed for a good long time.

“Oh, my dad’s a computer programmer, and he works from home. No fun equipment there,” Arthur says. Then his eyes glint wickedly. “But my mom’s a cop.”


End file.
